Tapestry
by ArtisticRainey
Summary: Another round of prompt fics, this time from a different list. A variety of characters, themes, genres and ships. Some chapters labelled with individual warnings.
1. Chapter 1

**1\. Scott, Gordon and Grandma – Poker**

"Round and round and round it goes. Where it stops? Nobody knows."

Grandma clicked her tongue and looked up from under her green visor.

"Just deal the cards, kid," she said. "Less of the chatter."

Smirking at Scott, Gordon finishing doling out the hands and sat back to survey his own cards.

"You know what they say about people with big mouths, Grandma," Scott said, flicking the edge of his pair up to check their value.

"Yeah, big tonsils," the older woman retorted. "Now hush up and let me think."

It had been Gordon's idea to while away a sleepy afternoon with some friendly competition. Virgil and Alan were already out. The latter fell spectacularly after going all-in with a high-card straight, only to be beaten by Scott's royal flush. Virgil, never a keen card player, had shown more interest in the comings and goings of the sea birds outside and hadn't lasted long.

So now it was just Gordon, Grandma and Scott. _Easy pickings_ , Gordon thought as he shuffled his two pocket cards. _This won't take long..._

Once they had anted up, Gordon burned a card, then dealt the flop: two of hearts, jack of hearts and, most crucially, the ace of clubs.

Gordon made sure he didn't as much as twitch. The two cards in his hand were also aces. _High card three of a kind_ , he thought. _Not a bad start at all._

He threw in a modest bet, not to give the game away too early. Scott raised an eyebrow and called it. Their grandmother furrowed her brow and shook her head.

"Alright. I _suppose_ I'll call."

Again, Gordon tried not to smirk. Then he dealt the turn card.

The three of diamonds. _Not great for me_ , he thought.

And yet he bet - just enough to string the others along. Trip aces were definitely enough to keep going. And so Scott called. And Grandma, reluctantly, did the same.

Finally, Gordon turned the river.

The jack of spades.

 _Shut the front door!_

Despite his excitement, his face was made of stone. _I've got a house! Let's get this over with, baby._ Once again, he bet - a little more aggressively this time.

Scott shook his head and threw his cards down.

"Nuh-uh," he said. "One of you has a house. I just know it. I fold."

Gordon turned his eyes to his grandmother, who was looking from the pair of cards in her hands to the turned cards. Then she looked at Gordon.

"Alright," she said. "I'm not letting you walk this one. I wanna see what you've got. I see your bet and raise you a thousand."

"A _thousand_?" Scott asked, then whistled through his teeth. "Now I'm definitely glad I'm out. Too sweet for my blood."

Cool as the proverbial cucumber, Gordon saw his Grandmother's bet - and raised it.

"Another thousand," he said.

That elicited another whistle from Scott.

Grandma's brow furrowed again. She fiddled with the edge of her card. Then she reached for the chips.

"Okay, wise guy," she said. "I raise you _another_ thousand."

Gordon made his hands into a pyramid and flicked his gaze down at his grandmother's chips.

"Oh, Grandma, Grandma, _Grandma_. How much have you got there? About another five hundred? I'll see your bet and raise it by exactly what you've got."

With eyes like steel, his grandmother pushed her chips in. For the first time, Gordon felt a pang of fear. _No. She's bluffing._

"Call," Grandma said. "Let's see what you've got."

Chuckling, Gordon laid his cards on the table.

"There's that house," Scott said airily. Then he looked at Grandma. "What do you have, Grams?" he asked.

Gordon folded his arms.

"Oh, I have two pair," she said.

Scott rolled his eyes.

"Grandma!" he said. "You should never have been betting."

Gordon chuckled and reached for the chips - but Grandma shook her head.

"No, no," she said. "I have two pair. A pair of red jacks." She placed the jack of diamonds down on top of the heart. "And a pair of black jacks." She placed the jack of clubs on the spade.

As Gordon's face fell, his grandmother's smile became shark-like.

"No..." Gordon said. "No, you called two pair! Not four of a kind. That's not fair!"

"Read 'em and weep, kid," Grandma said, reaching out to pull the chips to her chest.

"Ha ha!" Scott said, grinning from ear to ear. "Nice. Oh, Gords. Tough luck."

Putting his head in his hands, Gordon looked at the meagre pile of chips that still remained in his stack.

"This old girl grew up with a poker playing father," Grandma said. She stacked up her winnings. "Sorry Gordon - but I reeled you in _real_ good!"


	2. Chapter 2

**2\. Matthew and Gordon – Turkey**

"So, tell me again what this Thanksgiving thing is all about?"

Gordon rolled his eyes and planted his hands on his hips.

"Matt, we've had this conversation at least six times. What is it that you're not getting?"

Running his hands through his red curls, Matthew clicked his tongue.

"Possibly the _point_ of it?" he asked.

Placing his head in his hands, Gordon sighed.

"Did you hit your head on the last rescue?" he asked, peeking through his fingers. "It's pretty self-explanatory. Thanksgiving – it's for _giving thanks_."

"But, like," Matthew said, sitting back on the couch, "you give thanks every day. Like saying 'thanks' to someone for holding the door."

"It's a bit more special than that," Gordon said. "It's more about giving thanks for your family and your friends, for being safe and well-fed and not wanting for anything."

With his mouth forming an 'o', Matthew looked like a freckled fish. Gordon couldn't help but laugh, which turned Matt's perplexed look into a scowl.

"Alright, lad," he said. "You don't need to be a prick about it. I'm not an idiot, you know. I'm just a man of simple desires."

"Which would be?"

Matthew ticked off his list on his fingers.

"Good sex, good beer and good food. That's about it."

Grinning like a devil, Gordon leaned forward.

"Well, I think there's some of that top-shelf beer left over from when we watched The Game last weekend."

The Game - the annual face-off between Yale and Harvard - had sent Scott into a rage followed by a cloud of depression after his _alma mater_ lost to the Crimson. John had been insufferably smug ever since.

"Alright, well that's the beer sorted," Matthew said. "The sex is accounted for already. So what about the food?"

"Define cornucopia," Gordon said.

The look Matthew cast him was stuck somewhere between irritation and completely perplexed. Gordon sighed.

"Lots and lots of food," he said, "including the juiciest turkey you'll ever taste in your life!"

Eyes wide as saucers, Matthew was practically drooling.

"Turkey!" he said. "I'll give thanks for that, alright!"

Chuckling, Gordon glanced at his watch.

"We should go over to the villa," he said. "Grandma usually serves canapés before the main event."

He stood and held a hand out to help Matthew up. The Irishman slung an arm around his shoulder.

"There's something else I'll give thanks for apart from turkey," Matthew said.

Gordon leaned into the embrace and cast a sidelong glance upwards.

"Oh?" he asked, playing the innocence card face up. "What would that be?"

Matthew leaned down to press a kiss to the side of Gordon's head.

"You, ya daft squid. You."


	3. Chapter 3

**3\. Virgil – Manners**

Being a part of International Rescue isn't about being thanked. It's not about being recognised or appreciated.

It is none of those things. But one thing Virgil Tracy could never abide by was bad manners – even on rescues.

Fear he could understand. Worry and panic and abject terror are all concepts he had come to expect. And later, the relief at being rescued, the joy at being reunited with loved ones. In those cases, it was completely understandable for the victim to run straight into the arms of their families or their lovers or their friends, then cast a glance backwards just in time to see the mighty Thunderbirds already lifting into the air. All of these things were both normal and natural.

What was not normal and natural, however, was rudeness.

 _"_ _Well, so far, your rescue attempts appear to be unsuccessful."_

That line had set Virgil's teeth on edge. And then:

 _"_ _International Rescue? Ha! International Slowcoach, more like."_

Had Thunderbird Two been fully operational – having already been taken out by Fischler's ineptitude – Virgil would have flown up and kicked the crap out of him there and then. It was one thing not to say thank you when you were swept away by a wave of relief. It was something entirely different to be abjectly rude _in the middle of a rescue_.

But it didn't end there.

What happened next would have made a sudden, unexplained airlock failure acceptable – nay, _necessary_.

" _So why do you spend all your time up here anyway, Mr Tracy_?"

John had left the comm. system open so everyone could listen in on Fischler's… _interesting_ take on life. All ears were tuned in. And when they heard the next words, there were daggers in every pair of eyes.

" _Is it because you don't get on with people? I can see that. You're a bit of an odd fellow, aren't you_?"

Virgil was convinced his teeth would be ground down to nubs. But it got worse.

" _I mean, I can't imagine you have any friends, do you?_ _It's true what they say: no one likes a ginger!_ "

Had Alan not already left the island in Three to collect Fischler and his crew – Brains vetoing the use of the space elevator until full checks had been carried out – Virgil would have plonked himself on the couch, remained cross-armed and steel-faced until he arrived on Five, then proceeded to beat the living shit out of Fischler. But Alan was gone. And so Virgil had to wait.

And as soon as Fischler's feet hit the ground, Virgil was waiting for him.

"You selfish, bad-mannered piece of crap," he snarled as he stalked towards him. "I swear, I'm gonna –"

"Whoa there, big fella!"

This time it was Scott doing the holding back. Virgil had already retracted his fist for a punch – but Scott's hand was on his arm, pulling it down.

Fischler simply looked perplexed.

"Well now," he said, brushing down the front of his jumpsuit, "that's not exactly the welcome I was expecting. Bit rude there, don't you think? If I was your employer, I'd fire you for insubordination and failure to greet your boss with a cup of tea on arrival."

" _What_?" Virgil spat. "Fischler, you are just _asking_ for it!"

Then Gordon was hanging onto his other arm, using all his strength to hold Virgil back.

"Easy, bro!" Gordon said. "Don't go all Bigfoot on us now!"

Calm as anything, Fischler breezed past with his hands in his pockets.

"Hangars carved from underground rock, I see. Bet you had fun excavating these babies. _Pew pew psssssshhhhhh_. All those explosions, eh?"

And then he was gone, Scott on his tail and trying to keep him away from as much secret tech as possible. It was bad enough that Fischler knew who they were. It would be something entirely worse if he got ideas for his own rescue outfit. Or more disastrous still, if he decided to try to _help_ them.

Teeth still grinding together, Virgil shrugged Gordon's grasp off and went to stalk after Fischler – but another set of hands on his shoulders stopped him dead.

"Virgil, it's okay."

Spinning around to face John, Virgil snorted like a bull.

"It's not okay!" he said. "None of what he said to you is okay."

And then John smiled at him – the same smile he had given Virgil a thousand times over in high school. It was a strange mixture of gratitude and gentle amusement. It took all the wind out of Virgil's sails. He sighed.

"I know, I know," Virgil said, pre-empting the lecture he was about to receive. "It's not worth it. Bad manners shouldn't beget bad manners. If I hit him, it'll just bring me down to his level."

"Right," John said. "Just ignore him."

Popping up between them, Gordon grinned.

"Maybe he'll 'accidentally' fall out of the plane when we get him the hell off our island!" he said.

Virgil nodded, brought his hand to his chin and tapped it lightly.

"You know, that could be arranged…"

"Gordon!"

John's scowl only lasted seconds. Then, the three of them fell into giggles.

His rage dissolved, Virgil slung an arm around his brothers' shoulders and smiled.

"C'mon," he said. "Maybe we can toss him in the pool, too…"


	4. Chapter 4

**4\. Scott and John – Tent**

One of the things John would always remember was the sound of the rain.

It drummed down for what seemed like days, though really it was only a night. John had lain awake for hours, just listening to the heavy fingertips that _tap-tap-tapped_ on the polyurethane nylon roof.

He was snug inside his sleeping bag, with a slumbering Scott head-to-toe at his side. It had been years since they had gone camping together – in fact, they hadn't since their long-ago scouting days. The scarves and woggles had been left behind this time. Now all they had from the old times was each other.

Another thing he would always remember was Scott's snoring. _That_ was something that would never change. John muffled his chuckle in the thick lining of his sleeping bag. He was notorious for being a light sleeper, but also for being a _noisy_ one when he finally managed to fall into a slumber.

Unfortunately, John's stifling had not been successful. Scott sat straight up, fully alert with the whites of his eyes flicking side to side in the faint light.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

John shook his head and sat up, too.

"Nothing, _Scooter_. Nothing at all."

Even in the darkness, John could sense Scott's irritation at the nickname.

"Something woke me up, _Jay-Jay ,_ " he said.

"Oh, touché," John replied. "You wound me."

Jay-Jay was not high on his list of acceptable pet names, which in fact contained no names at all. Well, apart from a simple _Jay_ – but only from Virgil.

"Well," Scott said around a gaping yawn, "you woke me up with your strange not-sleeping habits."

John huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes, though the effort was lost in the darkness. His huff was almost lost in the sound of the rain.

"I'm surprised you didn't wake yourself up with all that snoring. You sound like a freight train and an elephant suffering from bronchitis all in one."

Material shifted, shiny surfaces sliding against one another as Scott made himself more comfortable, leaning on one hip.

"Well, I've never heard myself, so I choose to believe it's not true," he said pointedly.

There was a beat of silence. Then the two brothers fell to pieces in giggles, their laughter punctuated by the _tap-tap-tapping_ of the rain.

Gradually recovering control over his laughter, Scott palmed his face and shifted again, this time leaning a little closer to his brother in the cramped space of the small tent.

"Oh, god, I needed that laugh," he said.

"Me too," John said. "Me too."

This was what it was all about. The brotherhood, the camaraderie, the simple act of _being_ together – not separated by twenty-two thousand miles of space and air.

John would remember the sound of the rain – and the sound of Scott's snoring. But the brotherhood, yes. That was what John would remember the most.


	5. Chapter 5

**5\. Grandma Tracy and Parker – Manners and Snore**

A night out in the West End was exactly what the doctor had ordered. Or at least, what Grandma Tracy ordered for herself. Grandson-wrangling could take its toll and, sometimes, the older woman had to decide that _enough was enough_. And on those occasions, she called Penelope.

This visit to London had already been more successful than the last. They hadn't nearly crash landed. There hadn't been any major disasters or secret societies plotting to take over the world. No, there was just peace and quiet and the theatre.

 _There's a grief that can't be spoken._

 _There's a pain goes on and on._

Les Mis had always been one of Grandma's favourite musicals, so when Penelope had suggested they take a trip to the Queen's Theatre to see it – now in its 120th consecutive year – Grandma had jumped at the chance. Parker had been less reluctant, but trooped along nonetheless in his capacity as bodyguard.

Already, her heart had been broken by the death of Fantine. She had scorned the Thénardiers and their treatment of Cosette; the same with Javert with his duplicity.

 _Empty chairs at empty tables_

 _Now my friends are dead and gone._

She had wept at Enjolras's bravery, hearing his words in the voices of all of her grandsons: "Let others rise to take our place, until the Earth is free!"

 _Here they talked of revolution._

 _Here it was they lit the flame._

And now, as she listened to Marius's anguish, recalling all of his fallen friends, wondering how her grandsons would cope with the loss of one… Wondering how she had managed to cope so long with the disappearance of her own son…

 _Here they sang about tomorrow_

 _And tomorrow never came._

There is was, that exquisite pause – the sense of total silence in the theatre. Grandma Tracy closed her eyes for the briefest of moments as her feelings rolled over her…

 _Chhhhaaaaaaaaaaa._

The silence was shattered by the intrusion of an earth-shattering snore. Grandma snapped her head to the side at the source – or rather, the _culprit_.

As Marius continued his lament for his comrades, Parker continued to snore. Huffing out a breath so harshly that her nostrils flared, Grandma Tracy leaned across and gave the bodyguard a sharp jab in the shoulder.

Parker snorted as he sat bolt upright in the chair, looking around him with wide eyes. When he saw Grandma's fury, he shrank down in his seat.

"Sorry, Mrs Tracy," he whispered. "I fear that I nodded off for a moment, there."

"You fear?" Grandma hissed. "I know you did! Imagine that! And the snoring. Parker, didn't anyone ever teach you to mind your manners?"

Even in the darkness of the theatre, she could see his blush.

And on the other side of him, she caught a glint of mirth in Penelope's eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**6\. Kayo – Belly**

She managed to keep her six pack until she was six months gone. After that, a there had been a Tracy intervention and she had been forced to start taking it easy.

Kayo poked at her swelling belly and sighed. It wasn't that she was unhappy with the little human being flourishing inside her – all thanks to _him_. Though, of course, she knew that wasn't strictly true. It takes two to tango and all that. No, she wasn't unhappy. She just didn't like the feeling of losing control over her own body.

Tanusha Kyrano had always been the one who was in control. What choice had she had as a child? Her parents were dead. She had been taken away by her uncle – whose intentions were far from pure. She'd had to break away, to escape and make her own way. She had taken the helm of her life, started to steer her own destiny.

It had been her choice to be taken in by the Tracys. At first, they were all smiling good Samaritans, and Kayo had decided to take all she could. It would have been easy to turn her back on them, to take and then flee. But as she got to know them, she decided to stay. _She_ was in control.

And now, it was her child that was in control of her body. Her child was dictating her wants, her desires, her emotions, her movements – and whether she slept or not. She knew it was all for the greater good. They would be _so_ happy when the little boy or girl arrived. But for now, Kayo had to surrender her control. She had to bow to the will of her unborn child.

And, deep down, she didn't mind at all.


	7. Chapter 7

**7\. The Hood – Butter**

Oh, yes. This is going to work. This is the _best_ idea I have ever had.

Who am I? Call me what you will. A villain. A tyrant. A _genius_. Most know me as the Hood, so called because of my dastardly cunning and skill. Who am I, _really_? No one knows…

Well, except that rotten niece of mine. I do wish Tanusha would come to her senses and join me.

But I digress.

Yes! This is going to work, and it is going to be the most villainous, tyrannical and _genius_ plan I have ever come up with. I am going to force the hand of the world governments and the GDF. I am going to force them to hand the Thunderbirds over to me.

How, you ask?

Well, it's simple. Plans have been afoot for some time. Companies have been purchased. _Changes_ have been made. And now, within the next two days, my new product will start rolling out across the world from hundreds of distributors. It's so common, so innocuous, that it will be in every household by the end of the week.

And what have I done? I have poisoned the world's butter supply, of course! Something everyone uses. Something that will start causing thousands, millions of people to come down with a horrific illness that only I have the cure to! And that will be the leverage I shall use to make my dream of acquiring the Thunderbirds come true.

The GDF will have no choice but to give me what I want. In fact, you might say I'm trying to… _butter them up_. _HA HA HA HA HA!_

 **~oOo~**

Update: it didn't work.

Damn.


	8. Chapter 8

**8\. John, Gordon, Matthew and Elijah – Frost**

 ** _Butterflies-verse._**

There's frost on the window. It's inching across the glass, tiny tendrils of silver creeping from the corner. Gordon sighs and shifts in the plush armchair, then closes his eyes as he inhales the spicy scent of mulled wine. The mug is soothing in his hands, the warm porcelain smooth against his fingertips.

They're _somewhere_ in the wilds of Donegal – Gordon can't even _say_ the place name, never mind point it out on a map. Driving rain kept them inside all day and led to a crackling fire in the hearth. Gordon sips his wine and opens his eyes again. Life has never been so good.

Burning turf, it seemed, was a familiar scent. Not something he had actually smelled before – rather, a smell that reminded him of something. Or rather, _someone_.

Matthew is the embodiment of burning turf. He's the fuel to Gordon's fire. He's the succour Gordon craved after a long day. He's the comfort, the reward, the homeliness that makes the aches and pains and stresses of the job worthwhile.

Catching his eye from across the room, Matthew lifts his own mug in a toast. He's right next to the hearthstone, the bottoms of his bare feet stuck out to the flames. _No wonder he was a firefighter before IR_ , Gordon thinks. _He's a complete pyromaniac!_

Then Matthew jerks his head to the side, wanting Gordon to look at something. Gordon acquiesces and as soon as he sees it, he cannot help but grin.

John and Elijah are curled together on the couch like two sleeping cats, their fair heads resting against one another. Hands and fingers are entwined with layer upon layer of clothing. They're silent and rosy-cheeked from the fire. _Those two aren't pyros_ , Gordon thinks. _They're the opposite!_

And he knows he's right. John and Elijah. Elijah and John. They're the water to Gordon and Matthew's fire, the moon to their sun, the starry sky to their glimmering ocean. While John and Elijah would be taking in a museum, Gordon and Matthew would be jumping off the roof. Two pairs of brothers and yet so much difference.

Chuckling softly, Gordon turns his attention back to the fire and the figure in front of it. Then he glances away again, taking in the new sight through the curling tendrils of steam from his mug.

There's frost on the window, coating the glass with silver. But on the inside, there's love – and it's enough to drive out any cold.


	9. Chapter 9

**9\. Virgil and EOS – Error and Failure**

" _Virgil, there has been an error in the drive system of Thunderbird_ Two."

That tinny voice, deceptively sweet. All Virgil wants to do is shut off the comm. – or better yet, to yell, "Don't you think I've noticed that?"

Because Two is in a swirling dive, heading towards the ocean like a leaf in a gale. Up and down, in circles, round about and back to front. And there's nothing he can do about it.

"Dammit!" he yells, desperately punching buttons and pulling levers. "I can't get control back!"

" _Incorrect_."

This time, the voice was welcome. Virgil's back stiffened.

"What do you mean?"

" _I believe I can correct the error_ ," EOS says. " _If you will let me._ "

She's asking because he's never let her loose in Thunderbird Two before. She's asking because he's categorically said _no_ every time John has suggested she helps with maintenance. _I can't trust her_ , he thought. _I can't. Not after what she did_.

But now, with the ocean looming closer and an explosive death on the horizon, Virgil doesn't have any choice. And he knows it all too well.

"Alright. Do it!"

And then there's the strangest sensation – like when Gordon took over the controls from the POD, but weirder. At least then, Virgil knew the craft was in the hands of a human being. Now? It's in the hands of the Frankenstein code baby John accidently brought to life. And it's scaring the _hell_ out of him.

Seconds become hours and life beyond the cockpit window goes in slow motion. Waves move across the ocean like inching silver strands. He counts his heartbeat. He thinks. _I don't want to be a failure. I don't want to let everyone down…_

And just as Two is going to hit the water, suddenly she's rising up like a phoenix, soaring back into the big blue above – and not below.

" _I have corrected the error_ ," EOS says. " _There is a problem with the code. I have made a temporary repair, but a permanent fix will be needed._ "

Air gushing back in and out of his lungs, Virgil grasps the controls as the AI lets go.

"Thanks," he says. "I don't know what I'd have done without you, EOS."

And then the tinny voice is gone, replaced by a tinkling laugh, girlish and light and almost _embarrassed_.

"Thank you for trusting me, Virgil," EOS says.

"It was my error not to trust you before," Virgil replies.

And she laughs again. And something inside Virgil feels a little lighter – as if a niggling worry has been washed away.


	10. Chapter 10

**10\. Virgil – Warning**

" _Impact in one minute_."

"I can see that!" Virgil growls. "You don't need to remind me."

John sounds like a computer – like he's auditioning for a role on Star Trek. Virgil fights with the turbulence, fights with the knowledge that if he _doesn_ ' _t_ do something quickly, the two people in the research station might die.

It's not a TV show. It's real. It's not like it is for John, sitting in his ivory and gold tower in the sky. All John can see are readouts and holograms and cute little symbols. For Virgil it's real and it's _now_ – and the countdown to his death isn't helping matters.

" _Virgil, pull up, now_."

He isn't even going to bother responding to the cool tone, given like a military commander, detached and far-off, nowhere near the battle.

How John can stay so calm has always been a mystery to Virgil. Sweat drips down his neck and into the stiff collar of his uniform. It's cold and it's tangible and it's real – the hologram of John that pops up in his face, blue and surreal, is only one third of those things: cold

" _Thunderbird Two, do you read me?_ "

Virgil flicks his eyes at his brother's hologram but says nothing. Because thirty seconds have passed and what he really doesn't need is John looming over him. Sometimes his brother is useful, full knowledge and data and readouts. Other times, though, he's not. He hangs there, bright and beautiful like a Christmas decoration, giving orders from twenty-two thousand miles away – but ultimately, has little use. Not in the here and now. Not in the cockpit where Virgil knows that if he times it just right, he can deploy the magnetic grips and yank that little escape pod out from between the rocks it's wedged between and –

" _Twenty seconds to impact. Virgil, listen to me –_ "

He doesn't even sound worried. He's just matter-of-fact John. Sometimes it's like they're not even brothers – just colleagues, doing a job and –

" _Virgil, I'm_ warning _you. If you don't start climbing I'm rerouting control of Two. I'll drag your ass out of there whether you fucking like it or not!_ "

The boulder that clips Two's starboard wing is one jolt. The other is the edge of sheer panic that has sliced through Virgil's ears. John's words are quick, terse, _worried_. John doesn't say things like that on a rescue. He doesn't swear. He doesn't try to wrangle control. He doesn't _threaten_.

And that's why Virgil breaks off his descent – slipping out of the narrow chasm just before Two strikes the rock face and shatters into a thousand little green stars.

There's static on the line for a moment. Virgil pulls Two out of the climb and tries to look everywhere but at the silver-blue hologram in front of him. John's tiny expression is taut, his eyes glittering and wide. Even in miniature, looking from the side of his eye, Virgil can see the rapid rise and fall of a holographic chest.

And then their gazes meet for a moment.

And then it's back to business. John's hologram starts flicking readouts and spouting data and telling him that the researchers are still okay – at least for now.

They don't talk about what just happened.

At least for now.


	11. Chapter 11

**11\. Scott – Rehabilitation**

 _rehabilitation: verb_

 _1\. to restore to a condition of good health, ability to work, or the like._

Every time something goes wrong, Scott needs a bit of rehabilitation. From the moment the telescopic arm pulls him out of One again, a caesarean unbirth, he needs rehab – right away.

You see, International Rescue is supposed to be infallible. It's supposed to be perfect, something anyone can rely on. But it's not. Sometimes, they don't get there in time. Sometimes they don't hear about the situation early enough. Sometimes armies stand in their way, or governments, or worse – both. International Rescue is supposed to save everyone.

But they don't.

On the failure days, Scott strips off his uniform and tosses it into the laundry suit, to be washed and recycled and reset for the next launch. He steps into a shower that feels like needles on his skin – and that's the start.

When they fail, Scott can't feel anything but the pain of someone else's death. He's died twenty-three times since International Rescue started – or, twenty-three and a half, if you count their father's disappearance, his possible death. Even if he didn't hear the screams, they echo in his mind. The accusations fall like gnarled fingers of justice, looming over him.

You failed! You failed! You _failed_!

 _I know_ , is all he can think. _I know_.

Because even if it wasn't his fault, even if he was stopped from doing his job by red tape or God himself – Scott would still feel the weight of blame on his shoulders.

By the time he's out of the shower, he's red raw and naked and he stands in the steamy wet room, sucking humidity into his lungs.

 _Breathe in. Breathe out_.

When he leaves the bathroom, he will be rehabilitated – as best he can. He'll hold his head up high and leave. He'll climb into his favourite blue shirt and his slouchy jeans and he'll make sure there's a smile on his face.

Because Alan will have homework to do. Because Virgil doesn't need to have his own maudlin mood attacked by Scott's own. Because Grandma doesn't need any more stress; she's worried enough about all of them as it is.

So when Scott steps out of the clammy air and pulls on his clothes and walks down to the lounge again, he'll seem like he's okay. There will be plaster over the cracks. It'll do for now.

It's not real rehabilitation – but it's as close as he can get.


	12. Chapter 12

**12\. Scott, John and Virgil – Poker**

 _poker: noun_

 _1\. a metal rod with a handle, used for prodding and stirring an open fire._

With Virgil, it's easy. A few kind words and his golden heart is out and he's blubbing all over the couch cushions. John does not mean this in a disparaging way. Not at all. In fact, he's almost jealous of his brother's ability to be open with his emotions.

John's not like that at all. It's almost like he just doesn't feel things as keenly as Virgil. Almost as if in the womb, Virgil got a double dose of emotional intelligence – and John only got a half-portion. It doesn't mean he doesn't _feel_. It just means his emotions aren't as close to the surface or as easy to find as Virgil's.

Scott, on the other hand, is an entirely different animal.

Oh, he _feels_ all right – and he feels keenly. It's just that with Scott, he tends to hide his emotions. Not necessarily through a lack of desire to deal with them. Rather, it's a lack of _time_ to deal with them.

With Scott, it's not as easy – but it's not difficult if you know the tricks. And John does. He knows _all_ of the tricks. Scott's an open fire – prod with a poker a few times and he'll burst into flames. Then, once John's eyebrows have been singed and the fire of Scott's emotion has cooled down, they'll talk.

"Scott, you need to stop this _right now_. You're being childish."

There's the poker – sharp and iron and heavy, shoved right into Scott's open flames. But it's for his own good. The words aren't really meant the way they sound.

"What the _fuck_ did you just say, John?"

John unconsciously sweeps a finger across his fair brows as Scott's anger flares – and then Scott's off with a Gatling gun of abuse, every syllable aimed at John.

They've danced this dance a hundred thousand times before, but John's still glad he doesn't have to face Scott in person. If he riles him up enough, it's not just his eyebrows he needs to worry about it. John brings a hand up to ghost over his cheek as Scott's hologram jabs a finger in his direction, his lips moving in rapid fire.

A few months ago, Scott punched John – a sucker punch, right on his cheekbone. Scott's defence was that he had been provoked and John agreed. He had to, since he had done the provoking.

But now, as John lets his hand fall – or rather, he pushes it down, since nothing falls in zero-g – Scott's lips are slowing down. The flames are dying down and realisation floods into his eyes, dousing the fire.

There is a pause as John waits and Scott looks.

"You did it again, didn't you?"

"Yes," John says. "You needed the outlet."

Scott shakes his head and runs a hand through his short hair.

"One day, I won't fall for it," he says wryly – though the hint of relief in his voice is palpable.

"Maybe," John replies.

And then they're on to another topic – and John's eyebrows live to see another day.


	13. Chapter 13

**13\. John and Gordon – Orchestra**

Virgil wasn't the only musical one in the family. It was just that he was _better_ than everyone else. It was the same way that they were all strong swimmers, but Gordon was head and shoulders above them – metaphorically, if not literally.

Their mother had encouraged all of them to try their hands at many different things. Scott and John had been the only ones to stick with the Boy Scouts. All the discipline and rules and badge work did not appeal to Gordon – and in any case, his competitive swimming career had taken over everything, even in elementary school.

Alan had been the one to get into mountain biking in a big way, though they all rode from time to time (usually when Alan needed a chaperone and no one could ever say no to those big blues).

Virgil had been the most musically accomplished of them all, playing piano and guitar and violin, and was also the only one who could write his own music. But the others dabbled. Gordon and Scott were proficient on the guitar, and it had been a long three years of Alan learning the tuba – the _tuba_ , of all things.

John played two instruments – two very different instruments: the drums and the harp. And quite how that happened, Gordon didn't know.

But happen it did, and sometimes, when the moon was high and John was home, the two would play together – quite accidently and yet quite beautifully.

Complement. It was the best word to describe them. Different and yet the same. Opposite and yet a perfect fit.

Gordon led the tune, his tanned hands guiding the song. And John would float in on the harp, those impossibly nimble fingers dancing circles of melody around Gordon's notes.

Together they would have the tiniest orchestra, a duet of beauty. No words were ever spoken.

There was simply no need.


	14. Chapter 14

**14\. Gordon and Alan – Blame**

"It was you!"

"No, it was you!"

"You!"

"You!"

" _You_!"

"Yo-"

"Pipe down!"

Gordon and Alan froze as the unmistakable timbre of their grandmother's voice rattled up from the kitchen.

"I'm coming up there!" she continued. "And whatever it is that's broken damn well better be fixed by the time I set my foot on the top step!"

Brown eyes met blue.

"We're dead."

"Yes."

Grandma Tracy's footfalls were heavy on the stone stairs as she ascended from the kitchen, muttering something under her breath that neither brother can make out. But the words didn't matter. It was the tone that struck terror into their hearts - the same tone that once reduced Gordon's English teacher to a puddle of fear on the floor after he had dared give him a zero on an assignment, just because it was a day late.

Gordon flicked his gaze to the smashed Buddha statue on the floor. Its face is intact, still grinning up at them. He had no idea where it came from – but it was safe to assume that it was valuable in some way, whether monetarily or emotionally.

He looked back at Alan, who couldn't have looked more like the proverbial rabbit in the headlights if he'd jammed a pair of ears on his head and declared an undying love for rabbits.

"What do we do?" he asked.

The muttering was growing louder and clearer – something about _damn kids_ and _never listening_.

"I don't know," Gordon replied. "Unless something miraculous happens, we're doomed."

Grandma Tracy's booted foot hit the top step – just as the miracle happened.

" _Base from Thunderbird Five. We have a situation_."

John's hologram appeared and spilled blue sanctuary out across the lounge. Grandma's attention was immediately diverted to her holographic grandson and, seizing the opportunity, Gordon and Alan swept the smashed remains of the statue under a nearby armchair before they strode to the sunken seating area to imbibe their big brother's knowledge.

"What was all that noise before?" Grandma asked after John had given them the low-down. "I heard a smash."

Gordon and Alan shared the briefest of sidelong looks.

"Oh, it was nothing, Grandma," Gordon said.

"Yeah, we were just…having a disagreement, that's all," Alan continued.

Scott had arrived and was already formulating a plan.

"Looks like we'll need all hands for this one," he said. "Gordon and Alan, join Virgil in Thunderbird Two."

"F.A.B.!" they chorused.

Perhaps it was the speed at which they exited the lounge that tipped her off. Perhaps it was because Alan was as good at lying as he was at doing his homework on time.

As the two brothers entered the passenger lift and started to descend to Two's hangar, a resounding screech echoed though the villa.

" _BOYS_!"

They looked at one another again. Alan gulped.

"I'm never coming home," he said.

Gordon slung an arm around his shoulder and nodded in sympathy.

"Me neither, bud. Me neither."


	15. Chapter 15

**15\. Scott and Gordon – Bandit**

"Scotty, please, _please_ will you play with me?"

Teenage Scott, weighed down by term papers and looming exams, sighed and set down his book.

Gordon was still young and sometimes the years seemed to stretch out between them. Sometimes Scott felt so _old_. He looked at his second youngest brother and was about to shake his head. He was about to say, "No, Gordo. I can't play. I'm sorry. I've got too much to do."

Those were not the words that came out of his mouth. How could he say such a thing? Gordon was standing there, dressed in a cowboy outfit with two plastic pop-guns holstered at his skinny hips. He stared up at his brother, his eyes deep and brown and _pleading_.

So the words Scott meant to say didn't come out of his mouth.

"Sure, Gords," he said, pushing back his chair.

The scrape of the chair leg on the wooden floor was overshadowed by the enormous grin that spread across his little brother's face.

" _Really_? Oh, wow!"

And with that, Scott had a sheriff's badge planted on his shirt front – and Gordon pulled the kerchief from his neck up over his face.

"I'm the bandit and you're Sheriff Scotty," he said, breathless with excitement. "And you'll never git me, you nasty varmint!"

With that, Gordon took off, tearing through the house, laughing like a maniac. Scott stood and fingered the badge on his chest, then looked back at his books.

Just an hour of playtime couldn't hurt, could it?

And at that thought, he tore off after Gordon, yelling at the top of his lungs.

"You'll never git away! Bandits _never_ win!"

But of course, in this case, the bandit _had_ won, after all.


	16. Chapter 16

**16\. Kayo– Sin**

It's a sin, or so she's been told. But Kayo's not religious – and never has been. How could she be? 2060 or not, there's still a lot of evil in the world.

It's not that she likes doing it. Why would she? It's not a pleasant thing to do. Yet, she must. She doesn't go out of her way to do it. She doesn't seek to commit what some consider a heinous act. It's just that sometimes to keep the Tracy family safe, she has to do things that she doesn't want to do.

The body slips from her fingers like water, the man's neck lolling like a ragdoll's. Broken, of course. She has broken his neck.

She hadn't wanted to. But he hadn't been open to listening to her advice. She had no choice.

Looking down at his crumpled form, she shakes her head. Then, slowly, she bends down to pluck the data pad full of schematics from his cooling hands. The fingers are compliant now that he's dead.

It's a sin, or so she's been told. But Kayo's not religious – and never has been. But sometimes, it takes a little sin to get rid of a little evil.


	17. Chapter 17

**17\. John – Turkey**

The kitchen was absolutely out of bounds. This was not an unwritten rule, but rather a _written_ one. John carefully smoothed the piece of paper on the wall at the top of the stairs and made his way back down to the kitchen, two steps at a time. He cracked his fingers. It was time to get to work…

It was no secret that Grandma Tracy's ability to cook was…less than average. John bent down and rummaged through the lower kitchen cupboards, searching for the roasting pans. This was a fact that they had lived with for many years. Residing on Five the majority of the year, John did not suffer as much as his brothers. He had his space rations and bagels. They had… _burnt_. Not one thing specifically. Just… _burnt_.

Pulling a large roasting pan from the cupboard, John straightened his long back and set it on the kitchen counter. Then he headed for the fridge.

He hadn't even intended to be down on Earth for Thanksgiving – when was the last time he had made the choice to come down? He opened the refrigerator and shivered at the blast of cold. It had to be a good six years since he'd chosen to do so. He had been down more recently than that at the coaxing – and eventual ordering – of their father. But last year, he hadn't been down. Last year, there hadn't even been a Thanksgiving dinner. No one had felt much like giving thanks when the lynchpin of their family had been wrenched away.

With no Jeff, there was no desire to have any celebration. Christmas that year had almost been cancelled altogether, rescued only at the last minute by Lady Penelope and Parker arriving in a whirlwind of gifts.

This year, John hadn't intended to return to Earth for Thanksgiving, even if they had planned to have dinner. Why bother? Dad was still gone… There wasn't a lot of give thanks for.

It wasn't until Gordon and Alan had put their goddamned adorable puppy dog eyes together and _begged_.

"Please, John," they had said. " _Please_. Come down and cook for us. We _need_ you!"

How could he refuse?

Reaching in, he pulled the ten kilo turkey from the shelf and tutted. Why did they even _need_ a ten kilo turkey?

He'd done the preparation earlier. The oven had been preheated. He'd already done the mathematics. 20 minutes per kilogram plus 90 minutes – which left him plenty of time to prep the rest of the meal.

The turkey went on the roasting tin with its criss-cross rack. The tin went in the oven. Then oven door was closed. John washed his hands at the sink and wiped them dry on the front of his apron, then planted his hands on his hips.

He didn't want to do any of these things. But the memory of those two sets of puppy dog eyes kept coming back. And thus, he started to peel and endless bucket of potatoes – with a ghost of a smile on his face.


	18. Chapter 18

**18\. John and Virgil – Fluent**

"I'm totally fine," Virgil said. "Nothing wrong at all."

"Cut it out," John said, crossing his arms. "I'm fluent in Virgil-ese. I know when you're lying. And see this?" He pointed at his ear. "This is a finely tuned bullshit detector. So let's have it."

The brothers were thousands of miles apart and yet the distance seemed to shrink to nothing as Virgil crumbled underneath his John's glare.

"Come one," John said, his tone now more gentle and cajoling."

Virgil opened his mouth and closed it again, shrinking back against the back of the couch. He was alone in the lounge, apart from the floating blue hologram – whose frown was deepening again.

"That's it," John said, unfolding his arms and looking as though he was standing up. "I'm coming down there."

Jerking forward, Virgil held up his hands.

"No, no, it's fine," he said. "You don't need to do that, I –" His voice caught and he swallowed. "I just can't stop thinking about Dad, that's all."

His expression softening again, John nodded.

"I understand."

This time, he patiently waited out the silence. The rest was inevitable. When the plug was pulled, the rest would spill out. It's was just Virgil's way.

"I mean, seeing Lee was great and all," Virgil said eventually. "It's just, I keep thinking about what Dad would think. What he would have done if he was here. I mean, that base was his life for such a long time."

Chuckling softly, John nodded and folded his arms again.

"I know. There were a few years when Alan was a baby when he spent more time on the moon than he did on Earth."

Virgil's laughter joined his brothers, and he shook his head.

"I just…" His tone sobered again. "I miss him, John. I wish we could find him."

"We will, Virgil," John replied. "We will."


	19. Chapter 19

**19\. Scott and EOS – Warning**

"I do not understand your hostility."

Scott clenched his teeth. _It might sound like a kid, but it's not one_ , he thought. The disembodied voice echoed through the dark of the lounge. Midnight.

"I think you understand very well," Scott said. "You perceived us as a threat. In the same way, I perceive you as a threat."

"My parameters have changed."

Cool. Tinny. So matter-of-fact. And yet entirely unbelievable.

"That isn't much comfort to me," Scott said. "How do I know they won't change again?"

This time, the darkness lights up blue – and John's hologram is staring at him. But it's hollow-eyed, stiff, not right. It's EOS in his body.

"They will not," EOS-John said. "John Tracy is no longer a threat."

Rage rose at the sight of that… _thing_ …taking control of his brother's hologram. Scott could feel his hackles rising, anger bubbling in his throat.

"And what happens when he does something you don't want him to do?" he asks. "What happens then? Will you change your mind, will you decide that he's a threat again? Because I think you will."

"Your supposition is incorrect."

Again, so matter-of-fact. As if it's simple. As if it's _normal_.

"EOS, I'm warning you –"

"And I am warning _you_ , Scott Tracy," EOS-John said, a flinty edge to its tone that resonated with John's true voice, "that further attempts to discredit my loyalty to John Tracy will be ignored. He proved to me that not all of humanity is evil." The hologram looked down. "Not all humans are a threat."

With that, the room plunged into twilight again. As he stared at the empty space above the table, Scott's only company was darkness - both inside and out.


	20. Chapter 20

**20\. Virgil and John – Rehabilitation**

"Virgil, is this really necessary?"

A growl. Then:

"Lie down before I _make_ you."

A pause. Then:

"Okay."

Lying down on the massage table, John sighed in defeat. Virgil draped the crisp towel over his brother's nearly nude form, before his footsteps moved away. John shifted his face in the padded oval and growled lightly.

"I really don't think –"

"I know," Virgil said, padding back over. "You really _don't_ think. Why did you think that floating around for a few minutes after being subjected to 25Gs would fix everything? Jay, you were nearly _crushed_."

John huffed out a breath.

"I was not nearly crushed," he said, his scowl visible to nothing but the tiled floor. "My suit lets me withstand –"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Virgil said. "Smell this." He placed a bottle of some kind of scent underneath John's nose. Then he switched it out for a second one. "Which?"

"The second one," John said. "It's always the second one. Why do you even ask me?"

"Because I'm a _nice_ guy," Virgil said, though the words were said through gritted teeth. "Even when certain people frustrate the hell out of me with their pig-headedness."

John grunted.

"Rude," he said.

There was a light sound as Virgil tipped some of the scented oil from the bottle into the palm of one hand. It was followed by the soft rasping of his calloused hands rubbing together. Then, part of John's towel covering was lifted and his brother went to work.

In spite of himself, in spite of how much he wanted to remain against the treatment, John relaxed into the deep pressure of the massage.

Within five minutes, he was out cold.

 **~oOo~**

Virgil Tracy had magic hands. This was known to all. At college, he'd taken night classes in Swedish massage, simply because he could. He always needed to do something with his hands, whether it was holding a spanner or sweeping paint across a canvas.

And as they had grown as International Rescue, as his brothers insisted on getting themselves broken, lost, sliced and _crushed_ – well, Virgil was glad of his skills.

Pulling the towel back up over his sleeping brother and then covering him with a thick blanket, Virgil folded his arms and nodded.

Yes, he was tired. Yes, he had a thousand other things to do. But this was important. His brothers were important – and he always made time for a bit of rehabilitation.


	21. Chapter 21

**21\. Scott and Penny – Saw**

The first time he saw something, Scott shook his head in disbelief. Penelope and…Gordon? He shook his head again. No. No _way_. Penelope and _Gordon_? The eternally fashionable with the eternally fashionless?

The second time he saw something, Scott looked a little closer. The way their hands lingered over each other's fingers. The way they held each other's gazes for just that little bit longer. Clearly they saw something he couldn't.

The third time he saw something, he knew. The determination in his brother's eyes as he worked to lever the fallen material from Penelope's legs. The look of sheer _trust_ in her blue eyes. And the relief on both of their faces when she was freed, unscathed.

Scott saw it then. Oh, Scott saw it then.


	22. Chapter 22

**22\. Virgil – Critical**

He could see the vitals in his own visor. John hadn't turned them off. He should have. Because right before his eyes, Virgil could see his own life slipping away.

"Heartrate slowing… Blood pressure falling away… Yup. Time for bye-byes."

When he blinked, the display was gone.

"I musta said that out loud," he said, the words scratching at his throat.

He had been torn to pieces on the side of the mountain. Where he was now, he didn't know. He wasn't even certain that all of him was in the same place. But, in one piece or many, Virgil knew he was going home in a body bag.

" _Yes, you did. And I need you to stop thinking that way_."

It was John's voice.

"Ah, Jay," Virgil said, once again not knowing whether he was thinking or speaking. "You were always bossy… Not a bully but bossy. Always tellin' me what t' do… Like y'knew everything…"

" _I do know everything_ ," John snapped. " _Trust me. I need you to think positive, Virgil_. _Gordon's on the way in the ski pod. He'll get you out of there._ "

Unable to stop the wet chuckle that escaped his throat, Virgil shook his head – or at least tried to. He opened his eyes but closed them again as fat snowflakes landed on them. He wasn't even cold any more…

" _You'll feel the cold once Gordon gets you into the pod_ ," John said. " _And yes, you did say that out loud. Listen to me, Virgil: you will be fine. Do you understand me?_ "

Lips moved but no sound came out. Virgil tried to open his eyes again but they were glued shut. _Yes, Jay. I understand you…_

" _Virgil! Do you understand me? Answer!_ "

 _I'm trying… I'm trying, Jay…_

" _Goddammit, Virg_!" John's voice rose to fever pitch. " _You can't fucking die. We need you. Christ, we need you more than_ anything. _Now listen to me: you are going to answer me right now or I swear to god, I am using the Space Elevator as a claw machine again and I'll pick your ass up off that mountain. Do you fucking understand me? Answer, you asshole_!"

Virgil couldn't help it. He really couldn't. Never before had he heard John lose his cool on a mission. He was always so level, even under pressure. It was something Virgil had always admired – and envied.

And in the moment, lying in pieces on the side of a mountain, with the snow digging him a shallow grave, Virgil began to laugh. It was light at first but grew and grew.

"I always thought Gordo would be the one to die laughing…"

Those were the last words he spoke.

 **~oOo~**

Quite where and how and what, he didn't know. But _who_. That was a different story. There was only one blue who could have had such vibrant hair combined with such a dreadful shirt.

"Jay?"

Blinking a few times, Virgil tried to clear the cobwebs from his head. His mouth tasted like mothballs and every move he made sent splinters of pain all through his body. But sure enough, within a few moments, John's pale face swirled into focus.

"Yeah, Virg. It's me."

His attempted to sit up failed miserably so instead, Virgil settled back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling tiles of the sick room.

"What happened?"

"Exactly what I said would happen. Gordon got you into the ski pod and brought you back – just in time."

Chuckling lightly – though wincing at the movement of his ribs – Virgil smiled.

"I guess you were right after all."

"I'm always right," John replied.

"I'm totally going to kick your ass for cussing me out, though," Virgil said.

This time it was John who chuckled.

"I'll accept my punishment," he said. His tone sobered. "I'm just glad you're okay."

"Me too, Jay," Virgil said, allowing his eyes to slip closed again. "Me too."


	23. Chapter 23

**23\. Gordon – Rehabilitation**

After the crash, he shattered. There followed months of surgeries, of pins and artificially knitted bones, doctors stitching and pulling and filling him to the gills with medication.

After four months in hospital, he was out of the wheelchair and into recovery – physically, at least. Mentally? Not even just a different story; that was an entirely different genre.

Gordon had taken his fair share of knocks over the years – more than his fair share, really. Each time, he bounced back faster, stronger, and maybe a little wiser. This time, though, things were different. There was one fundamental difference this time from any previous injury.

This time is was _his fault_.

He had been going too fast. He had ignored orders. He had lost control. He thought he knew everything, that nothing would eve go wrong.

And then he'd been torn limb from limb, seams ripped apart and his stuffing scattered to the waves.

The physical recovery was easy. He would be tracked with scars for the rest of his life, but it meant little to a man so heavily scarred already.

The mental recovery? That would take more than a little rehabilitation.


	24. Chapter 24

**24\. All the Tracys – Snore**

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a huge family, must be in want of a pair of earplugs.

At no time is this more apparent to John Tracy than between three and four a.m.

There are many reasons why he stays in space ninety percent of the time. There's the mess, the fuss, the _food_ …

Another of these reasons, of course, is the noise – and during the Devil's Hour, the island is a very noisy place.

It shouldn't be, of course. When the digital lights flick from two to three, it should be silent. Peaceful. Like space. It's true what they say: in space, no one can hear you scream. If only it was also true that on the island that no one could hear you _snore_.

Of course, it isn't true. And thus, John Tracy spends the Devil's hour with a pillow rammed against both his ears.

Scott, who claims to be a light sleeper, snores like a machine gun. A long intake of breath followed by a _pew pew pew pew_ exhalation of .301 calibre exhalation.

Virgil is the consummate freight train. His breaths rattle in and out at thundering speeds and as far as John is concerned, it's a wonder he doesn't jerk himself awake every five minutes.

Gordon would have anyone believe he didn't snore – but he does when he sleeps on his back. Gordon's snores are like desperate gulps of air. It's as though he's drowning in memory. More often than not, John will go in and gently turn his brother onto his side, feeling the taut strings of sinew between his fingers. Even in sleep, Gordon is coiled like a spring, ready for action.

Alan is the talker. He talks about _everything_. From missions to successes, old memories from Kansas… And worst of all, his _fears._ The soft keening of worry, the quick yelp of fear – and every one of his brother's names spoken at one point, seeping under the crack at the foot of John's door. How many times has John nearly gone to his brother's room to bring him comfort? How many times has he done so? Alan sounds so _young_.

The only one of them that doesn't snore is Kayo. Like in everything she does, she is graceful, silent. Sometimes John wonders if she even sleeps at all. Sometimes he worries that she isn't even _there_.

Quite frequently, Brains _isn't_ in his room. The scientist keeps strange hours, going along with whatever whim or need takes him. If he's not in his room, he's in his lab – and John can understand that.

And Grandma? Well, she is the one John is most likely to meet as he pads the floorboards at night, stepping on moonbeams. She's the one who might be coming out of the room he intended to enter, already having turned Gordon or comforted Alan, or made sure that Kayo hadn't snuck off in the night.

She doesn't speak. She simply smiles and holds out one arm. John offers his own and they walk to the kitchen, arms looped around one another like life preservers. She doesn't ask why he isn't asleep. She never does.

Instead, they wait for M.A.X. to appear with twin cups of cocoa. Then they sip and wait and watch the play of starlight on the waves.

As the Devil's Hour plays out, they are silent in each other's company. Grandma Tracy's fingers seek out John's and they take comfort in the grip of one another for a little while.


	25. Chapter 25

**25\. Kayo – Gown**

Scott had nodded in approval – the sort of older brother approval that always gave Kayo a tingling feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Virgil had given her the most _enormous_ grin. Far too much a gentleman for a wolf-whistle, he had offered her his arm to escort her downstairs.

Gordon was _not_ too much a gentleman and indeed _did_ wolf-whistle as soon as he saw her – receiving a jab in the ribs from Penelope for the effort.

Kayo couldn't help but laugh at his yelp of pain and the abject _sorrow_ in his eyes when he looked at Penny again. The lady was not sympathetic in the slightest.

As they reached the bottom of Creighton-Ward Manor's sweeping staircase, Alan happened to turn around – and his jaw hit the floor.

"Kayo!"

He didn't exclaim; he _yelped_. He dropped his drink – though Parker's quick reflexes caught the crystal before it hit the ground. To her credit, Kayo didn't react. Instead, she patted Virgil's hand, gave him a grateful smile, then glided over to Alan – and tipped his jaw back up.

"I take it you approve, then?" she asked, giving him a little twirl.

The black silk shimmered in the bright lights of the ballroom. The emeralds that encircled the smooth curve of her neck were warm. They had once belonged to Lucille.

"I… I…"

Alan's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. Chuckling, Kayo reached out to take him by the hand.

"Come on, Rocket-Boy," she said, tugging him towards the dance floor. "Let's see if you paid attention in any of those dance classes we took as kids."

Alan's response was incomprehensible. In the background, there was another whistle – followed by another yelp.

" _Lady PI_!"

"Oh, do leave your brother alone, Gordon," she heard Penelope say.

Gordon's protests were lost as Alan shook his head, steeled himself, looked _up_ at Kayo and held out his hands.

And in that moment, he was transformed. No longer the gangly young brother. For one dance, he was the master of himself, an adult at long last.

And Kayo? For once, she switched off – indeed, _actually_ switched off her earpiece, if only for just one dance – and she simply enjoyed the feeling of the black silk gown twirling around her, letting the music and the blue of Alan's eyes sweep her away.


End file.
